


Stripling

by BenLMoore



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Choose Your Own Ending, M/M, Pining, Weecest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-01-10 11:59:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12298812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/BenLMoore
Summary: Life on the road with their dad is hard enough. The last thing Dean needs is to want Sam.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was born at 4 am and was intended to lull me back to sleep. Instead, it kept me up for a few subsequent nights, writing and tweaking. 
> 
> My other WIP is all-the-frick-over the place, with characters and scene changes galore. (I think in a good way, but still) This is just two boys and one conflict, just to be sure I can still do that and stay focused.
> 
> When I was a kid, I used to love those fricking Choose Your Own Adventure books. This is not that. You are not in this story :), but at the end, there are four possible endings that feel equally plausible. 
> 
> Enjoy! And let me know what you think. It’s such fun to write and a massive boost to know that someone is receiving it.  
> Special thanks to lotrspnfangirl for making the time to beta.

[ ](https://imgur.com/FL4Rit3)

“Jesus Christ, Sam. Be still.” Their dad was going to grind the crowns off his teeth.  
  
He was like a cartoon character with steam huffing from his nostrils. Only it wasn't funny. They'd lost good people on this last hunt. John Winchester was known to lose it over far more trivial things; the boys would need to tread lightly for a while.  
  
More than once during the fray, Dean had growled at Sam to keep his ass to the rear. "Head down. Don't try anything fancy. You know what, don't do anything. Just hang back and watch the perimeter."  
  
That wasn't their training, but Dean could not concentrate unless he knew Sam was safe.  
  
The battle had passed and they were sailing south on I-25, out of Kaycee, Wyoming, towards the next nightmare.  
  
Sam’s foot had started tap-tap-tapping the base of the driver’s seat a few miles back. At their dad’s complaint, Dean turned and swiped a stiff finger across the air, signaling his kid brother to switch sides. Was Sam kicking his chair annoying? Hell, yes. Was it that big of a deal? No.  
  
There’d been a time, not too long ago, when the kid was always whining about something. Either he was overheated or itchy. If he was hungry, Dean could never find something he was willing to eat. Sam’s stomach, arms, legs, back, head used to ache at various times, for no apparent reason. But he’d chilled out a lot in the last year. Still, when Sam got like this, it was a matter of time before their dad lost his limited cool.  
  
Be that as it may, there were rules, even if they were unspoken. For example, there was a rule that Dean didn't steal if they were going to be in a town for more than a day. Another tacit agreement was that John was not to raise his voice at Sam. Except during training. Then, he might even cuff his youngest, because sometimes the kid needed a firm slap to snap his floppy hair out of the clouds.  
  
But generally speaking, John Winchester was not to raise his voice at Sam.  
  
That unspoken law had been established the first time the baby wouldn't stop crying. Whether Sammy was colicky, or cold, or just cranky, they would never know.  
  
"Be quiet, Sam. Be quiet. Shut up." John’s voice reached an almost frantic pitch as he reached for the infant and started to rattle him.  
  
Pre-schooler’s serpentine green eyes narrowed, pitbull fierce. If nothing else, Dean could and would bite. "I got him," he’d said and eased brother from father’s grasp.  
  
Dean’s comfort wasn't instant, but it was constant, even all these years later. He was the Sammy-whisperer.  
  
"Knock that shit off," John barked as they crossed into Colorado, although Sam had moved. “Would you do something about him?”  
  
“Yo, Sammy,” Dean said over his shoulder. “Read.”  
  
“I’m done.”  
  
“All of em?”  
  
Two days prior, Dean had pinched a full box set of those goofy Choose Your Own Adventures Sam liked so much.  
  
Strolling out of a Borders with one book shoved down the seat of your jeans, no problem. Lifting a dozen? Let’s just say, it had required expertise. Dean had expected his efforts would win at least a week of entertainment for the kid. Apparently, no such luck.  
  
Unentertained, Sam’s default setting was moody pubescence, or as Dean called it: bitch mode. Every now and again, though, a flip would switch and Sam would revert to being a kid, full of energy, like a puppy leaping at his feet. Raising Sam was a lot like having a dog and John Winchester wasn’t any better with pets than he was with people.  
  
Dean tried to give Sam the childhood he’d had cut short: handing over his ice cream so Sam could have extra, hiding and seeking at gas stations, playing tag around run-down motels all across the lower 48. He’d never say it aloud, but he hated to see that time hurtling to an end for Sam. Not to mention the complications caused by the rapid-fire disappearance of his baby fat.  
  
“Needs to run around,” Dean said. Any good boy trainer should know that.  
  
“Can't it wait?”  
  
“You want him to chill, give him thirty minutes, like you would an inmate.”  
  
John pulled over and lit a cigarette in the parking lot of an elementary school Dean had found, courtesy of Rand-McNally. Dean had finally convinced him to quit smoking in the car. Sam's asthma didn't flare up anymore, but still.  
  
Sam poured himself out of the car like a six-month-old Great Dane free of its leash. Legs rangy and damn near to his chin. Long lines and lean muscle. Inside and out, Sam was different. Dean had all of his dad's sturdy, stick-to-the-script Winchester grit. Sam was willowy and weird. Too smart for anyone’s good.  
  
And so fucking pretty.  
  
Dean rubbed the back of his neck, scratched the last thought from the record and called his brother a spazz.  
  
He leaned against a tree, wishing for a bad habit to occupy his hands and mind while Sam got his frolick on. In his imagination, he’d already bummed a smoke from their dad.  
  
Yeah, right.  
  
“Do what I say, boy. Not what I do.”  
  
The tweet-tweet of their father’s thumb and forefinger whistle translated to ‘Sam and Dean Winchester, front and center!’  
  
The boys reported at attention like the obedient, Pavlovian thoroughbreds they were.  
  
“Alright, Sam. Let's see if you can leave your big brother in the dust, yet.” John pointed to the forest that formed a border 100 yards on the other side of the school grounds.  
  
“Pick a tree, any tree.” Dean grinned, grateful for the distraction and his father’s playful mood. “How about I sweeten the deal? You beat me, I’ll eat salad tonight.”  
  
“That one.” Sam pointed out the crooked maple Dean figured he'd pick.  
  
The little nerd bounced on his toes, as if he had an ice cube’s shot in Hell. Sammy, the dreamer.  
  
For a few seconds, they were neck and neck, and that had never happened before. But after a dozen or so strides, whether it was by speed, Dean’s confidence, or the fact that Sam's lungs were still wet and unfurling like butterfly’s wings, big brother pulled ahead, and the kid never recovered.  
  
It didn't even occur to Dean to let Sam win, just like he never pulled his punches when they sparred. The kid had to learn the sting of defeat and the taste of his own blood if he was ever going to be as good as Dean. The same way their dad kicked Dean's ass.  
  
Sam propped, hands on his knees, huffing and puffing like he had straw houses to blow down. Dean clapped his shoulder. “One of these days, kid.”  
  
Sam shoved his hand away and sprinted back to the playground while Dean strolled toward the car. When he passed the playground, Sam was dangling from a monkey bar like a lesser primate. Too-small t-shirt slipping up-down around peach-fuzzed armpits, revealing smooth, honeyed-cream skin with a pair of raspberries on top. His hair swung towards the earth below, his upside down smile twisting Dean’s stomach.  
  
Little brother hanging in mid-air like an unripe plum Dean wanted to taste.  
  
Just like that, It was back. The It that went away and left him alone, sometimes for days. But when It returned, It was always vengeful of having been driven away.  
  
There was a bottomless pit in Dean’s heart. A hole he'd excavated for the blurry memories of his mother, for mourning, loneliness, and fear. This thing was worse than all of those feelings and he refused to deal with It.  
  
“Hey, Dean. Watch this!” shouted his baby brother.  
  
'No, Dean. Don't!' Roiled his guts.  
  
Of course, Dean watched. Sammy had asked him to, and Dean's sick dick screamed out for it.  
  
Sam’s dismount wasn't exactly Olympian, but his dimples were deep, shining eyes awaiting approval. Dean looked askance, mumbled, "Lame" and turned his boner away from the baby.  
  
Their father tossed his smoke into the yellow grass. “Call him over to the sandbox. I want you to show him a quarter-Nelson.”  
  
Dean was a good soldier, but he wasn’t going to wrestle Sam with a hard-on. He faced the Impala like a naughty kid in time out and let the metal cool his hands.  
  
Better than touching Sammy, or stroking his own inflamed flesh while he thought things he shouldn’t. "He’s your kid. You show him."

 


	2. Chapter 2

Dean hurled his duffel bag onto the second of two queens. “This is bullshit.”

“You watch your goddamn mouth, boy.”

“Look at him! He's almost big as I am.”

Sam was in the corner, trying to act small, re-re-reading The Abominable Snowman. Out of curiosity, Dean had flipped through a few pages. It was mildly entertaining, but probably like Dr. Seuss for Sam. Was he torturing himself with this kid’s stuff so Dean wouldn’t feel bad that he’d shoplifted it for nothing?

At the moment there were other fish, with sharper teeth that Dean needed battered in a pan, or he was going to have very bad night.

“He pulls the covers like a maniac, Dad. Nobody can put up with that.” He pointed at Sam and added, “You ever get married, your wife is going to murder you in your sleep.”

Versions of the same conversation had been ongoing for weeks, or months. Dean had lost track.

“You can sleep in the car,” his dad said, like that was a real offer.

Dean could, would, and often took that advice when they weren’t deep into Wisconsin fall. Or he curled up in a sleeping bag on the floor, when the carpet wasn’t splattered with funky stains of this room’s past hurrahs. There were other options, but the best one, their father wouldn’t even consider.

It was always the same worn-out argument. “So, who's paying for this extra room?”

“I would,” Dean said, “if you'd let me hustle.”

“Alone? So you can get shanked by some redneck?”

“That's not going to happen, Dad.” The pitch of Dean’s voice went through the roof, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

“That’s right. It's not going to happen. You're going to shut up and go to bed. And Sam, if you pull the covers off your brother, it's thirty extra push-ups in the morning.”

Great. Problem solved.

“Dad, this isn’t fair.”

“I mean it, Dean. Shut the fuck up.” At which point, John Winchester rolled out the Finger.

The Finger was to the Fist as Ed MacMahon was to Johnny Carson. The Finger was a warning that the Fist thought highly of itself, and once it got rolling, it was hard to stop.

“Quit yapping like a little bitch. You’re driving me crazy. Both of you.”

Dean rubbed his hands over his head. In the corner, Sam stared back over the edge of his children’s book.

Their dad salted the entrances, grabbed the keys and split without another word.

Before Dean had time to lay down a law, such as No Undressing, Sam was undressed and prancing around in his too-tighty whities. When Dean did earn some money, new underwear for Sam would be the second thing on the list, behind a blindfold for himself.

It had always been that way. The kid would walk around naked if you let him, complaining that it was too hot, regardless of the actual temperature.  
Sam could outgrow Underoos, as long as he stopped at a centimeter shorter than however tall Dean wound up.

Dean was alone in a dimly lit motel room with a beautiful, mostly naked boy who would do anything he said. He had no choice but to bring out the big guns. “Nice chest, Woodstock.”

The kid had been hardly out of diapers when he started reading the comics. Not laughing, but studying like there was going to be a quiz. There was no question that Sam would get the Charlie Brown reference, and it would sting.

In reality, Sam’s bird chest was a thing of the past. He’d plumped up for a while there and then, suddenly shed all the fat, like a snake, wriggling out of the other end of itself. He was shiny and sleek now, with a physique to pride any young demigod.

Sam’s torso and limbs were thickening, but his skin was thin as ever. He reached into his duffel and shrugged on a stolen AC/DC t-shirt. Who cared? He was covered and had retreated to the chair in the corner, legs curled beneath him in a way that displayed too much about what was between them.  
Big Bad Brother sat with his back to the headboard, willing himself to look away.

Failing.

With their father off on a don’t-wait-up whiskey run, Dean resolved not to move an inch. If John returned to find either of them in his bed, it would result in some manner of interaction with all-the-way drunk John Winchester, who probably shouldn’t have driven back to the motel in the state he’d be in, and definitely shouldn’t be alone with children. When he came in like that, it was best to pretend sleep, no matter what. It was a bit like encountering a bear on a hike. After the first time, if you manage to walk away from it, you’ve learned a valuable lesson.

Dean kept to his side of the bed like stink on shit and pulled out his entire arsenal. First, he called Sam a ‘book-a-holic nerd,’ which as insults go, was tame. He followed that up with more jabs about Sam’s looks: the hair was too long, his skin was fish-belly pale, legs looked like he got them off a giraffe. That sort of thing.

Little brother was oddly susceptible to those comments, considering how completely freaking gorgeous he was. Never mind that Dean secretly worshipped his freckle-less complexion and would die inside if Sam cut an inch from his hair. Everything about him, from the waist down, was unbearable.

Everything about him. Period.For precisely that reason, Dean hurled insults like he was warming up for the World Series. Right until it looked like Sam was going to cry. Then he shut his stupid trap.

If Sam went to bed in puppy mode, he might still try to snuggle. Dean couldn't run the risk.

When Sam finally crawled onto the mattress, he lay with his back to Dean and didn’t even try to get under the covers.

Mission accomplished.

Except for one thing. It didn’t matter. All that effort being mean to Sam was a waste of time. It was back and badder than ever.

Sam was pissed enough to make sure that no part of his body touched Dean’s. Still, Dean was so stiff he was near tears. His dick certainly did some gentle weeping. If he had a guitar, he'd be making up songs about it.

He could write a poem. Jesus Fuck. Dean covered his eyes with his arm.

When he really and truly couldn’t stand it anymore, he tossed himself off the bed and staggered to the bathroom. He stripped his dick like this was all its fault, which was pretty much true - unless he wanted to blame Sam for being perfect.

Around midnight, when Dean woke up stiff again, their father still wasn’t back.

Again, he stumbled into the bathroom to take care of himself, with his eyes closed and supporting his weight with one hand on the sink. He slipped back into bed without Sam so much as stirring.

The next time he woke up, his dream was clear as crystal: Sam had been dangling upside down from a tree like a forbidden fruit with his juicy pink mouth open and waiting.

Their grumpy old bear snored, back in his cave, blanket falling off his bed while his liquor-sweat stank up the air.

Dean stayed where he lay and tried to will his stiffy away. He tried to reason with himself, with his dick.

_You can’t jerk off in the bed between father and little brother. You can’t beat off to visions of baby boy dancing in your head. You can’t get off to thoughts of a little kid, a dude, your own flesh and blood._

Ah, but you can, and he did. Slow, painstaking torture. Crime and punishment in reverse, for stealing a whiff of Sam’s hair as he came, and for wiping his mess off underneath the pillow.

Still, with all of that, Dean woke in the morning with crusty shorts and hazel eyes on him like judge and a convicting jury.

“What?” Dean croaked. “Quit looking at me, you little weirdo.”


	3. Chapter 3

 

The bell over the convenience store door rang, and the Winchester men parted on three disparate, but equally important self-appointed missions. 

Even the alluring fragrance of $.99 all-beef franks couldn’t ease Dean’s worried mind. Of course, Sam knew something was up. The kid had always had seven or eight senses. When they were younger, the dreams he shared out loud were so eerily accurate sometimes that Dean stopped asking about them. 

Sam could read his big brother better than Beetle Bailey. Tell what he was feeling or even thinking way too often. Dean needed a cover before Sam got suspicious because if he did, the kid would have no choice but to march straight to John Winchester and tell him that his older son was possessed. It’s what Dean would have done if he had reason to believe Sam was having these kinds of unhinged thoughts. 

The need for camouflage is how he found himself standing in front of an endless rack of nudie mags. There were blondes and brunettes, black babes, and anatomically altered Asian dolls. No pubescent boys, go figure.

Their dad was still in front of the deli counter talking with a contact. Sam was somewhere. 

Where was Sam? 

Dean was well past the age when most human predators lurked behind him, worse in a way, than anything they hunted. They were like slimy green creatures that used to creep between the supermarket rows where candies and cookies rendered kiddies just as greedy and rule-blind as they were. 

He’d outgrown their attention, but he knew well their ways. On more than one occasion, he’d relied on the hungriness of strangers for a meal or a ride. The most important advantage of having successfully navigated the pedophile safari of his childhood was that Dean could sniff them out and snuff them out before they came within thinking range of Sammy. 

He sneered at the clean-cut, button up shirt wearing sleazebag at the end of the aisle with the ‘real’ books. The monster wouldn’t stop glancing out of the corner of his watery eyes at Sam. 

Dean’s fingers gripped the hilt of his Bowie. If he wasn’t allowed to look at Sammy that way, this history-teaching fuckwad sure as shit wasn’t. 

The guy was so entranced by Sam’s legs or lashes, both endless and school-girl pretty, that he didn’t even noticed that he was being watched. Dean almost felt bad for the schmuck, as if he’d laid the bait. But then the animal inched down the row, and Dean didn’t feel anything at all. He just pounced. 

One arm wrapped around the perp’s forehead, jerking back until his neck was exposed. The other trained the knife on his throat. Dean lowered his voice an octave, deep as their dad. “So, ten-year-olds? That’s your thing?” 

Sam was a month shy of thirteen, but ten sounded better (worse) and what did this asshole know? “What the—”

  
“Sh.” Dean peeked over his shoulder, only wanted trouble with this dirtbag. 

Predator/prey’s jugular jumped beneath his thirsty blade. Dean instructed Sam with his eyes. Little brother nodded, knew to be on lookout, even if he wasn’t sure why. Dean wouldn’t be explaining later. It was best if Sam never knew how perverted some people could be. 

“Little kids. That’s cool, I guess. But you know what gets me off?” Dean’s lips brushed the guy’s ear. “That sound a grown man makes when he’s slipping around in his own guts and shit. Seeing him trying to scoop ‘em up with his fingers and stuff ‘em back in. Now, that right there? That’s fucking hot.” 

He dug in enough to draw a thin red line. And there it was: the stink of fresh, warm piss. 

“No? Guess that’s just me, then.” 

He let the perv go and watched him run. 

Careful to step over the puddle he’d caused, Dean grabbed his jailbait brother by the scruff of his shirt and dragged him over to the row of glossy mags. “Pick one.” 

“What?”

  
“Just fucking...” As good as any choice, Dean yanked the latest edition of Playboy from the rack and shuffled Sam toward the bathroom.

  
He stuffed the mag down the back of his own pants and said, “You stay the fuck by me, got it?” 

Sam nodded, marble eyes saucer-wide. 

Back in the car, Dean didn't dare whip out his new treasure in front of his dad, and God, and everybody else. Not that John Winchester didn't have his own stash. Dean would have helped himself to one of those, but the same policy applied to his duffel as his bed and his socks and everything he considered his. 

Iowa became Nebraska became a haze of stale heat blowing on Dean’s feet while cool air blasted in through the window. 

1067 miles later, with his jet-black hair parted and combed, the old man grabbed his keys and the pack of condoms and once again, left his wayward sons to fend for themselves. 

This time, though, Dean was ready. He sat back against the headboard with his ankles crossed and his periodical spread over his lap. There was a riveting article about the Boss.

Sam tottered from the bathroom, yawning and rubbing his eyes like he was three years old. 

“How can you be tired? You slept all day in the car?” 

He shrugged sharp shoulders, hair falling scarecrow-wild over his fluttering eyes. 

“You need a haircut.” 

“Would you do it? Dad’ll just go crazy.” Sam shook the strands out of his face and pulled back the cover. “Like, just trim the edges?” 

The Battle of Sammy’s Hair was the only one John Winchester allowed his younger son to win. The kid had to fight and shoot and participate in the family business. But in exchange, if he wanted to “walk around looking like a Muppet, it wasn’t worth the hassle” to keep him clean cut like his line-towing big brother. 

“Yeah, I don’t know, buddy.” Dean made like he only had eyes for Amber Petersen’s Scandinavian good looks. 

“Can you turn off the light?” 

“In a minute.” 

Sam turned his nose up at Dean’s selected reading. Then he rolled over, facing the wall and pulled his pillow over his head. His breath mellowed to a quiet purr in a matter of minutes, and Dean pulled the pillow away, so the little idiot didn’t suffocate in the night. As a reward for his chivalry, he treated himself to a single pass of fingers through silky strands. Sam didn’t stir. Must have been really bushed. 

Need redoubled, Dean went back to poring through Heffner’s best offerings, yearning for something to focus on other than the thermal boy-body beside him. 

They were gorgeous girls, every one of them. But Dean couldn’t smell that they'd been sweating all day and had skipped the shower, like this lazy little delectable bastard on his left. His skin must be so salty, like a Lays potato chip leaving him always wanting more. Was there a stretch of it that Dean could lick without Sam ever knowing? Behind his ear, perhaps. 

There wasn’t a price Dean wouldn’t have paid to taste his baby brother.  
That certainty sent him fleeing, once again, into a motel bathroom, beating off in tears. 

He sat on the toilet, collecting and cleaning himself. He’d come in record time, for some dumb reason, wound up by the idea of cutting Sam’s hair. What was it with Sam’s hair? Other people have hair. Somehow Dean only got turned on by fantasies involving Sam’s. Touching it, burying his face in it, breathing it in, smoothing it back from his face so Dean could damn near suck out Sam’s soul through his mouth. 

Somewhere during the second round, there was a soft knock on the door. Dean froze, as if he could be still enough to mask his presence. As if Sam didn’t know exactly where he was. 

What Sam didn’t know was what Dean was doing and why? If he ever found out, it would more than hurt him. He’d never be able to trust his older brother again. Never look at him the same. That wasn't something Dean could bear. 

He would never hurt him. Would never take from him. Never act out any of the diseased daydreams that kept him and his dick up all night.  
But if Sam ever saw any of the naked want in Dean’s eyes … 

Dean clenched his teeth and tried to make it a Bunny in his mind, saying things to him that Sammy never would. Tried to make it a girl, anyone else on God’s forsaken earth, but the image stayed the same. 

A second load soared clear across the bathroom, Dean shuddering with something like relief to the imaginary tune of Sammy on his knees and begging for it. 

Sweating, hot and deeply bothered, big brother climbed into the scuzzy, cold bathtub under a handful of rough, threadbare towels. He spent the night freezing his nuts off, but doing no harm. 


	4. Chapter 4

The Arizona ID that put Dean at twenty-one only came out on special assignments. Anyone who saw it looked twice at his hard-set jaw and never-shaven face, cocked their heads, and let him through.

Sure he looked young, but he had the paperwork, the attitude and more importantly, the greenbacks to back it up. As long as he acted like he belonged in a bar, everything remained cool.

True to the hustle, he lost the first game of billiards, doubled the bet and sank every single ball on the second round. John Winchester sat at the bar with one hand on his beer and the other in his pocket, cradling the handle of an 8mm.

Every now and again, Dean would glance over at the 40-something guy he wasn’t supposed to know. His dad’s itchy trigger finger was the only element of the con that made him nervous. Otherwise, it was a piece of cake.

After paying for their drinks, he strolled back to the Impala counting out a little under $100. Not much, but enough.

They skipped over to the next town, and Dean booked the extra room himself, using his 21 ID. John tried to pretend he wasn’t impressed, that it was all business as usual, but that tight-lipped nod was familiar from every job well-done and creature properly-dispatched.

Dean lugged his duffel out of the trunk onto his shoulder and held the keys out to his dad. “I was thinking, maybe, I could take the single and Sam could bunk with you.”

It was a long shot he had to take.

John let loose a throaty laugh and patted his son’s cheek before he disappeared into his room.

Dean rolled his eyes and opened the back door. “Come on,” he said without any of the kindness he usually reserved for his brother.

Sam, who had been curled up in the back seat with some book Dean had never seen, hauled his stuff into their room. He’d chosen a bed before Dean turned around from securing the perimeter.

“No way.” Dean indicated with a sharp nod that Sam was to take the bed farther from the door.

Sam sucked his teeth and moved.

He tossed Sam’s book at him. “James Joyce. That anything like Rolls Royce?”

“No.”

“Where the hell'd you get it?”

“That lady’s house. The one with the dead daughter.”

Dean had been snooping in the basement. Sam wasn’t even supposed to leave the car while their father conducted that interview. “So, what, you just broke in there and stole it?”

“You do it all the time.”

“So, you want to wind up like me?”

“What do you mean? Duh.”

Sam may not have known, but Dean didn’t ever want to see his brainiac brother five months from getting his GED and giving up on a real life. One day, the job would be over, and Sammy could have something good, as long as he kept his path straight as an arrow and narrow.

“Just, fucking ... I don’t want to see this shit again. You want something, you tell me. We make a way.” Dean wiped his mouth and shook his head. “Jesus.”

He shucked his jeans and climbed into his very own double bed with his very own girlie mag, employing great effort to remain oblivious to whatever Sam was doing.

“Is it that bad?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Sam tossed himself on his bed.

“Go take a shower,” Dean said without looking at him. “I can smell you all the way over here.”

It was true, and it was not pleasant.

Dean’s dick was pleased, but the sane parts of him were unamused.

Sam stood with his hands on his slender hips, visibly debating rebellion before he rolled his eyes and stomped off to the bathroom.

This would work. Dean would go on playing dictator and Sam would be so peeved, he wouldn’t say another word. He’d shut his pretty mouth and go to sleep.

Part of that turned out to be true. Sam returned in a theatrical cloud of steam with a towel around his waist.

Dean sank into the mattress as if his bones were made of lead. He didn’t breathe. Willed his unblinking eyes not to travel over and catch a glimpse of that precious moment when the towel dropped, and Sam pulled up his underwear. Not to watch him bend over. And especially not to see his crack part and reveal a perfect, tight, hairless, pink

Yes yes yes. No no no.

Hard as stone. Blood on fire. Eyes scouring the page for anything to rile him up like Sam did.

“Dean?” Sam said it like he was repeating himself.

“What?”

“Can I see that?

“When I'm done,” Dean said, denying himself another look.

Sam disappeared into his book long enough for Dean to hope it was over for the night. Eventually, though, his squeaky little voice unsettled the silence and dimness. “Why are you so mad at me?”

“Go to sleep, Sam.”

“You hardly talk to me anymore unless it’s to bite off my head.”

“Just knock it off, okay?”

“Dad, too. It’s like I’m this massive fuck-up. A waste of money. Growing too fast. I pull the covers.” Sam was full on whining, apparently too sleepy for self-respect. “I don't mean to. I just...” Finally, he ran out of steam or gave up the ghost, flipped onto his stomach and vanished under his blanket.

The sniffles made Dean into a Giant who had inadvertently stepped on a village and trampled all the sweet little sheep.

He couldn’t go over there. He was still irrevocably hard from the little peek-a-boo with Sam’s hole. He was just waiting for the kid to go to sleep so he could slink into the bathroom and deal with it.

Sam showed no sign of stopping or sleeping. At wit’s end, Dean tossed the magazine onto his bed. “Here. Sam. Knock it off. There it is. Just read it and quit being a little faggot.”

That last word was a stupid mistake, but he couldn't put it back, so he stood by it. No use apologizing when it wasn’t much worse than bitch, and he’d been calling Sam that for the last year or so, especially when he acted like one. This moment would definitely qualify.

Sam pulled the covers from his head, eyes nearly glowing red.

“Just read the fucking magazine,” Dean said, turning away from that accusing glare. “Ten minutes until lights out.”

He retreated to the bathroom for the nightly Jerk and Rinse. Biting his lip to keep his groans under control, he shuddered and stroked and strained while out there, his little brother was getting acquainted with Heff’s Harem.

A shadow moved beneath the bathroom door. Sam was no idiot. He had to know that Dean would see it.

Breathless, he froze mid-stroke and waited for a knock or a 'Hey, Dean, I got to pee.'

But Sam moved away, and Dean finished his tug of shame.

That night’s first gasket was blown to the idea of Sam standing on the other side of the door, beating off in tandem.

Did he spank yet? Dean didn’t even know, which meant probably not, or else the little bastard was sneaky about it. Sam definitely had a sneaky side. His dumb little artifacts that he kept at the bottom of his duffel in a jewelry pouch: stones, and baby teeth and a cicada wing, the same way their dad hid his Hustlers.

Sam had other secrets, Dean was sure. Sometimes when he was so still and staring off into the atmosphere, it was like he was securing the triple combination lock on thoughts he’d never let into the light of day or dark of night.

Dean washed hands, brushed teeth and went back to bed. His magazine lay on his pillow, shut, like Sam's eyes, although he wasn’t asleep.

Dean cut the light and skipped the goodnight, so he wouldn’t have to hear Sam’s voice.

“Which one do you like?”

So much for that. “Go to sleep.”

“Which one of those girls is your favorite?”

Sam wanted to talk about girls. That could end one of two ways.

“Is it Marsha Clarke?”

Out of all of them, she was Dean’s favorite. Marsha was studying to be a nurse because she liked helping people. Dean couldn't look for long at the blondes. They made them think of his mom, though that was stupid and he had to ever get over it. Everybody loves blondes. He didn’t want to be that one weirdo who...

Oh yeah.

“Yeah,” he answered, silently begging Sam to shut up.

“What do you like about her?”

“She's got great tits. Now shut up and go to sleep, Sam.” Silent begging wasn’t working. The out loud kind stuck, for a while.

“Do you hate fags?”

“What?” Dean opened his eyes in the dark.

“Nothing. Good night.”

“What did you just say?”

Silence.

“Sammy, what did you just say to me? Fucking talk, now or I’ll beat your ass.” It was big talk for a guy who was terrified to leave his bed.

But Sam didn’t know that. Probably still thought Dean wasn’t scared of anything. “If a guy ... isn't, like, all that into tits and stuff. And maybe he's like ... just likes other stuff. Would you hate him?”

“Other stuff, like what?” Dean’s head spun. What was the initial question? “No. No, I don't hate anybody. And certainly not ... ‘cause of stuff like that.”

“Dad does, right?” Sam asked. “Hate gays.”

“I don't think so. I never heard him talk about it.” Dean double-checked his memory to be sure he was telling the truth.

It had never come up, that he could recall. They were too busy hating and killing evil things to be worried about who anybody was going to bed with.

“I’m not. I don't mean me,” Sam said, too quickly.

Did he mean Dean? Was Dean gay? He wasn’t into other guys. Wasn’t really into anyone else. Just Sam.

“I’m not gay, Dean, if that's what you're thinking.”

“I know, buddy.” I’m not worried about you. “Just go to sleep.”

But Sam’s breath never wound all the way down like Dean was waiting for. Even from across the room, he could almost hear little brother’s mind whirring away like a machine in a factory, while his body lay deathly still.

At first.

Then he was on his feet.

“Get back in your bed.”

The second time Sam got up, Dean was nearly asleep himself. And what could it hurt? They’d shared a bed their entire lives. It was no wonder Sam needed some time to get used to it.

They’d been at each other’s throats. The kid snuggled up against his big brother for comfort, security, stability. No wonder.

But not a good look for Dean, especially when Sam's overlong, too-hot limbs draped over him.

He started to get up and make a bathroom run. Arm and leg tightened around him like tentacles. Hips pressed against his. If any part of him had been asleep, his whole nervous system flipped over into red alert.

But Sammy was drowsy. Maybe mostly unconscious. Breathing deep. Minty-fresh breath blowing warm from his open mouth. Hair in his face. Too close.

So Good. Not good.

Dean tried again to slip away again. Another press of those hips. And another. Not coincidence. Sam was grinding into him. In his sleep. Moaning. Had to be dreaming.  
God help him, the base of Dean’s spine rocked back and his hips swung forward. He gasped for air as a wave of pleasure crashed into him, blocking lungs, igniting veins.

He didn’t mean to move. Didn’t want to. And was physically unable to stop.  
Or to keep himself from shooting in his shorts while he humped his baby brother.

Dean trembled, bit down on the pillow and sobbed. Sam opened his eyes and withdrew his limbs. Dean fell from the bed and scrambled from the room in his damp skivvies like the place was on fire. He ran, as if he could flee himself, and take all his sickness with him into the cold, moonless night.


	5. Chapter 5

For future reference, it’s incredibly easy to get the after-midnight receptionist at a $40 motel to let you into a room when you’re shivering in dirty underwear. Dean supplied his name as John Winchester and said he’d locked himself out. Without further question, the 50-year-old virgin behind the counter gave him a key.

Dean curled up in the chair in the corner of his dad’s room ignoring the springs poking him in the ass. He tucked his legs up under him and his chin to his chest, sleeping like a falcon. That’s just where he was when his father stumbled through the door, wrapped up in some laughing fair-haired chick. Apparently, John Winchester knew a joke and had none of his oldest’s qualms about blondes.

Dean sat there, still as a shadow, unable to speak. Choking on a funk of liquor sweat and sex. Transfixed by the silver packet discarded on the floor, three feet from the foot of his chair. 

He lacked the decency or self-preservation to shut his eyes against pale knees jutting out on either side of his father’s hairy back. There was no way to unhear the grunts and whimpers, or to unsee somebody’s plump housewife on her hands and knees, panting like a Greyhound in heat. His dad worked her like he’d paid good money for the two minutes it took to finish the job. Nothing to do, but sit there and wait for the end. 

And subconsciously take notes.

The second it was over, dark eyes landed on Dean’s corner as if his old man had seen him sitting there all along. “You enjoy that?” 

The broad kissed his cheek and swished ample hips off to the bathroom. Dean went on perching, silent as stone, until his dad’s guest vacated the premises. John Winchester laid on his back with his hands tucked under his pillow. 

He didn’t say another word, and neither did Dean.Father slept. Son did not.Even once the old man was snoring, he couldn’t muster the courage to swipe the keys and sneak out to sleep in the car, like he longed to do. 

It wasn’t until dawn’s early light split through the thin curtains, and John Winchester scratched his ass on the way to the can that Dean slipped out of the door.  
Sam let him in and went back to packing. Dean was showered, dressed and ready to split in two minutes flat. Sam didn’t ask about his night; Dean did not volunteer. 

At breakfast, he shoveled eggs and bacon and sausage and toast into his face nonstop until their dad sat down his mug and asked, “So, what happened last night?” 

Sam hadn’t broken eye contact with the table other than to mumble his order for a veggie and egg burrito, as if there was a charge to unhinge his jaw. 

“We had a...,” Dean started. “I didn't want to kick his ass.” 

There were a great many other things he wanted to do with his little brother’s ass.  
And that bitchy mouth. Sam kept his lips pursed tight as his asshole all throughout breakfast, studying the menu even well after they’d gotten their food. 

Say sorry. 

Between each bite, Dean glanced at Sam, willing him to look back. Hazel eyes remained hidden behind his hair, fixed on his plate. Meanwhile the dull thrum between Dean’s legs swelled to a sharp ache as the desire for any crumb of Sam’s attention surged into need. Rather than shout at his little brother, he raised his hand at the waitress and pointed at his mug. He didn’t actually care for coffee, but she was young and cute and had been watching Dean since the Winchesters walked through the door.

He let her fill him up and smirked. “Thanks, sweetheart.” 

Dean pretended not to notice or care when both father’s and baby brother’s eyes went wide. Sam was looking at him now. That’s what mattered. 

Apologize, you freak. Dad doesn’t have to know why.

Dean ignored his own advice and gave himself heartburn gobbling up his bacon like an excavator. The next time, he called the waitress by the name engraved on her rectangular tag. 

Christie floated over, a blue collar angel in sensible white shoes. There was something Dean legitimately liked about her. She wasn’t remotely what he wanted, but she was equal parts sweet and tough like Sam, and he could actually have her.

The prophet Jagger spake true about getting what you need.  
She brought him a little plate with extra bacon at which he sat forward with his chin on his knuckles, batting his lashes and smiling his gratitude. He might as well have tossed  
banana peel on the floor in front of their table, ‘cause boy did she fall for it. 

Sam forgot all about his vegetables and appeared to be chewing his tongue. Obviously still angry about Dean’s attack the night before. By some miracle, he hadn’t spilled the whole thing to their dad yet. But it was just a matter of time. 

Christie wrote her number and her name in big, loopy cursive at the bottom of the receipt which she placed in front of Dean. (No charge for the extra bacon). He paid with the last twenty from his hustle. 

Sam slid from the both, mumbling about the bathroom. John Winchester (who Dean would never see the same) grinned and gave his older boy a little nod, flicking his eyes to the girl who was watching from the counter. 

Dean’s gaze followed baby brother until he disappeared, dragging Dean’s heart behind him like a battered doll on a string. 

Older brother pulled himself together, dusted off the knowledge he’d been gleaning from Heff’s experts. Flirting 101: How to Nail It Every Time.  
He’d made initial contact. Confirmed her interest. Now, to follow up.  
Physical touch was required, ideally skin to skin. As he approached, Dean scanned with hunter acuity for the best possible spot. Half sleeves.  
He gave her a smile (half-truth), said he would call (complete lie) and brushed his fingers over the downy fur on her forearm. (Heart pounding like he was staring down a vamp). She nodded, tossed her hair and waved again as they headed out of the door. 

They’d be hours out of this town before she even finished her shift, or so he thought. But instead of getting back on the road, their dad declared it a Hunter’s holiday. He even had intel of an abandoned two-room cabin 50 miles outside of town. Free, available and clean enough. There was even running water and electricity. 

Their father knocked on Sam and Dean’s door with his bottle of Old Spice in one hand and the car keys in the other. He clapped them into Dean’s palms and gave him a sly grin. By some stroke of grace, he did not offer fatherly advice.  
In a few tiny hamlets and sleepy towns across these United States, there are a smattering of girls who’d had the sloppy pleasure of receiving Dean Winchester’s first nervous pecks, cautious nips, and overzealous slurps. 

Christie, the waitress, was his first full on make-out sesh. 

So far as he could tell, he did pretty good. Anyway, she wasn't complaining. Dean came barreling around the curve, hot and heavy, on his way towards third. And just like that, his nerve was nowhere to be found. He could take down a werewolf and hadn’t been kidding about spilling that guy’s guts. But as his hands were sliding up her skirt, his mind was stuck  
on Sam’s long face at being left alone with their dad. 

Dean made up a story about a test the following morning, not even sure where he came up with that one. 

“Yeah, of course,” he said just as easily she when asked if he’d call again. 

Johnny-boy was passed out in his room, which meant that he was not awake to pry for details Dean couldn’t stomach to give. The bottle of Jack lay on the floor beside the bed. Dean didn’t move it, sit it up or in any way acknowledge its presence. He just stepped in to turn out the light. 

In the boys’ room, Sam sat up on one side of the bed, watching TV and inhaling chips. Neither thing happened very often. The little nerd had once said out loud that TV was junk food for the brain, and he was more likely to sneak a late night apple than anything with grease and salt. 

Sammy was acting out. That much was clear even before he ignored Dean’s casual, “Hey.” 

The unclaimed half of the bed was littered with a million strips of Playboy. So Sam had jumped and landed on a conclusion that gave Dean the perfect out. Big brother could say that the nude pics had put him in a frenzy. He could spit out the bitter apology and swear the humping would never happen again. 

Dean brushed the remains of his magazine onto the floor and lowered himself to the bed. Sam’s nose curled up and he turned away. 

“Sam, I’m sorry.”

He shook his head like Dean had started talking about ghoul farts or wendigo shit. 

“What's your problem?” Dean launched a counterattack. “I said I’m sorry, okay. I … I don’t know what happened. I ... just needed to get some, I guess.” 

Was that the story? That he had laid the girl? Of course. If anybody asked - Sam, his dad, St Peter on judgment day - that was the story Dean was sticking to. 

“You smell like her.” 

Dean sniffed his collar. (If You Like overpriced brand name crap, you’ll love this dollar store knock off) “Yeah, well, girls smell good.” 

“No, they don't. They stink,” Sam said. “That's why they put on all that perfume. Because pussy smells like fish.” 

The vinyl record of time screeched to a halt.

“How the hell do you know that? Sam ... Did you read that somewhere?” 

“I touched a pussy and it stank.” 

“What pussy?” Dean had touched his first pussy a little under an hour ago. (Sam was more experienced than him??!) 

“This girl.” 

“What girl?” 

“Why does it matter?” 

“Why didn't you tell me that?” Dean faced the tiny screen. Loony Toons. 

“It's not that great. I don't know why you like them so much.” Sam huffed out a loud breath and said, “I guess I am gay.” 

Then he stormed into the bathroom. 

Holy rigatoni, Batman! 

It was Dean’s turn to knock on the bathroom door and whisper, so as not to wake the sleeping dragon in the adjoining room. 

“Sam. You're not...” Dean rested his head on the rough-hewn door. “Even if you were... Just open the door, okay.” 

“Go away.”

“Sammy.”

“Fuck off.”

(Did the kid just tell him to fuck off?) 

It doesn’t get any clearer than that. So Dean fucked off, undressed and climbed into bed.

There was no way he was going to sleep until there was some semblance of peace with Sam, but he could lay on his back, close his eyes and regulate his breathing. He could wait all night. 

It didn’t even take all that long before the door clicked open. The shuffle in the hall became a slender, beautiful boy at the foot of his bed, standing there in his too-small underwear with his long arms hanging at his sides. His eyes on Dean’s face like he was waiting for an answer. 

“What is this?”

Sam shifted his feet, swallowed. His mouth parted. Whatever escaped was inaudible.

“Sam, what the fuck?”

“What do you think of me?”

“I think you're fucking crazy. Go to sleep,” Dean’s mouth said. His dick thought other things. 

“Do you think I'm...” Sam shrugged. “Would you ever want to kiss me?” 

Temporary paralysis is a funny thing. It may appear, when a person is frozen solid, that their brain has gone offline, thereby rendering them incapable of motion or speech or any voluntary action. In fact, Dean Winchester can attest that while the body stops working, it’s a grand opportunity for the mind to go haywire. 

Sam’s knee was the first thing to touch the bed. Then his hand, the other knee, the second hand until he was crawling up his brother’s legs, lifting Dean’s shirt and placing a kiss on his belly. 

Before he destroyed it, Sam had, apparently, also memorized the Playboy. This advance was straight out of one of the stories. Dean hadn’t recognized it when Sam said the line, but now he did, and it was like they wrote that fantasy featuring a 13-year-old boy instead of a buxom Irish farm girl. 

He ran his hands down Dean’s chest, like Letitia in the story. That’s where things dovetailed. Her man was wearing trousers, so she had a lot more work to do. Sam had only to deal with elastic. 

He pulled it down and took an eyeful. “Does this mean you like me?”

“Sam, please,” Dean begged with no idea what he needed. 

Sam admired him, and leaned close. Dean let loose a sigh. 

“I love the way you smell.” 

In the story, the milk maid rode the lucky stable boy into the sunset. In the tale of the two young hunters, sweet Sam licked his lips, gazed into his brother’s eyes and asked, “Can I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Choose your ending and/or write a different one in the comments.  
> I'm curious what you favor. Let me know.  
> Read: 
> 
> Chapter 6 If Dean throws a punch  
> Chapter 7 If Dean nods  
> Chapter 8 If Dean takes over  
> Chapter 9 If Dean freezes


	6. If Dean throws a punch...

They stared at each other with wide, glassy eyes. Sam’s lip was bleeding. Dean’s knuckles buzzed.  
He'd never hit his brother without his father shouting in his ear like an inner demon. It had to be done. He needed to knock some sense into Sam and himself. This was not what Winchesters/hunters/soldiers/boys/brothers do. 

The kid stumbled backward, long lashes fluttering wet. He’d never been more beautiful than standing there, smearing the red over his lip with the back of his hand. He sniffled once, then, walked from the room. 

Dean took a minute to bring his pulse and breath back to human levels. 

"Sam." 

He didn't expect an answer. Didn't get one. 

Dean needed to get himself together, get laid for real, stop looking at his brother like he was a steak. It was time to put these psycho ideas out of his head once and for all.  
He could do that. Dean Winchester could do anything he put his mind to, except forgiving himself and getting to sleep that night.


	7. If Dean nods...

He closed his eyes and didn't dare open them until Sam’s tongue was on his lips. Some hormone spiked Dean’s blood and his hands closed around Sam’s arms.

“I’m sorry.” Sam drew back with a horrified look on his face.

Dean tried to tell him it was okay, better than okay. Amazing. A heaven-delivered answer to a dark prayer he’d never dared to utter. His voice was on strike.

Sam backed away, wiping at his eyes with both hands. Dean still hadn't caught his breath by the time the kid fled the room.

"Sam."

He didn't get an answer. Didn't expect one. 

It was time to put these psycho ideas out of his head. Dean needed to get himself together, get laid for real, if that's what it took to never put Sam in this situation again.   
He could do that. Dean Winchester could do anything he put his mind to, except getting to sleep that night.


	8. If Dean takes over...

Acting on instinct, he flipped, quick and dangerous as lightning, with Sammy squirming beneath him.

Dean licked the seam of his brother’s perfect mouth and sucked until the mint was gone from his tongue and the only flavor left was Sam. Sweet gasps whipping up a whirlwind of heat that rushed through Dean’s veins like Hell and Hallelujah.

A kiss for Sam’s neck, another for his cheek and Dean slid downward, pressing his face against the precious rise and fall of his chest. He smiled onto Sam’s skin and closed his eyes to sink into the sensation of the small, warm hand on his ear and the swift beat of Sam's pulse.

He lay there a long while, arms around Sam’s waist, drifting nearly to sleep until Sam’s finger’s tapped his neck.

Dean blinked awake, curved his fingers beneath the elastic and lost himself. Sam was in his mouth, wriggling beneath him like an eel. Fingernails scraped across his scalp. Sam's voice, whisper-shouting, repeating Dean’s name like an incantation.

For those too-short minutes, there was nothing else holy on earth. The moment Sam cried out and burst salty bitter in his mouth, regret poisoned Dean’s mind like a virus.

Sam reached out a hand, tried to call him back to wholeness, strove to cure him with a tired smile and a palm across his brow.

Dean’s overstuffed brain scrambled for words and came up with, "Did you like that?"

Sam nodded.

Dean mirrored and dropped his head on Sam’s chest as pulses returned from racing to resting. Clammy palm sweet-soft on his ear, arm curled around Dean’s head like it was a prize.

The tears just happened. Dean didn’t know why he was flooding his brother’s navel, except of course for the obvious. “Dad’s going to kill me.”

“No, he--”

“And he should. He should fucking brain me. I'll stop. I'll stop, okay?” Dean forced himself to lean up on jellied arms. “I won't... I won't be like this anymore. I'm sorry, Sammy. I swear.”

Sam called after him, but Dean didn’t stop moving until he had shut and locked the bathroom door behind him. He pressed his back against it and slid to the freezing floor.

Then and there, he concluded that there wasn’t any solution except for to stiffen his spine and start fucking every female he could to make this madness stop.

“Dean.” Sam knocked soft and persistent until Dean reached up and unlocked the door.

He stepped inside, closed it behind him and sat beside Dean. Sam lowered his head to his big brother’s shoulder and sighed. He found Dean’s fingers and twined them together.

“This isn’t a good thing, Sammy.”

“Of course, it is,” Sam said. “Love is always a good thing. Don't you love me?”

“You know I do.”

“Yeah. See?”

If one thing had always been true, when Sam smiled there was nothing else that mattered.


	9. If Dean freezes

It was an inhuman level of torture. Adam held the fate of humanity in his hands, and all he was offered was fruit. Sammy hovered over Dean like a wide-eyed apple waiting to be tasted, devoured, corrupted.

Dean couldn’t help feeling like a worm.

“I’m sorry. I..." Sam started to creep away. 

That's the only thing that would have been worse. Dean caught his arm, pulled him up flush - chest to chest, knees knocking and then sliding alongside one another. 

Heaven was this boy anchoring Dean to the bed, pressing his want into Dean’s stomach, crashing into him over and again, ruthless as the tide while Dean struggled to keep his breath. 

Dean’s hand clawed Sam's back. Tried to bring him impossibly closer. Begging him to slow down. Not ready for it to be over. Not ready for any of this 

To have his knowledge of belonging to Sam solidified into stone in a matter of a few timeless minutes.

Even when it was over. It wasn't. Sam stayed there stuck to him by Nature’s glue of sweat and come that Dean couldn't even find gross, although it was. 

But it was also a miracle.  
Sam was sucking on his neck. His sighs were music. His hair was silk. His marble eyes were alive with light when he smiled and said, "I love you.”

All of him was rapture. 

Dean’s heart and mind and body responded with a silent prayer of gratitude and devotion. Whether the praise was to Sam, or for Sam didn’t matter in the least. Dean would worship blindly for a lifetime.


End file.
